One of the Whole
by August08
Summary: A serial killer. A detective. A street artist. Three separate lives. Three different paths. However, when a mistake from one spirals out of control, they all find themselves being hunted for the same crime. Can they find redemption in the arms of a family who has lost one of their own? And can they be accepted for who they truly are?
1. Sky

**A/N** : I'm trying to get the gears turning for writing again. And what better way of doing that than with a new story? I've been plotting this story for a while now (couple of years, in fact). A lot of research has gone into this story, and I hope it will pay off. I also hope that you all enjoy the story.

 **Disclaimer** : I own nothing associated with TMNT. I only own the OCs, wherever they may pop up.

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Lightning lights up the small, dark apartment. I sit across the table from a man who's tied to a chair. Tape is wrapped around his mouth, keeping him quiet. My right index finger is balanced on the bottom tip of a knife; the bladed end digs into the smooth wood of the dining room table. For someone who is facing down his soon to be killer, this guy is extremely calm; but, I can see the fear in his eyes. They always get scared before I have my fun.

I look around the room. Pictures of a happy family decorate the walls. It makes me grin. No family is truly happy. They all have their secrets; their lies. I catch my reflection in one of the picture frames. Short, dirty blonde hair, green eyes. I wear a brown leather jacket over a black t-shirt. I also wear jeans and sneakers. Gloves cover my hands; don't want to leave any fingerprints. I look back at the man. Beads of sweat run down his face. I smirk. Yeah, he's scared.

I place the knife flat against the table and pick up a cell phone that lies in front of me. I open it and flick through the numbers. There's a number there that isn't in his regular contacts. I look up at the man and grin darkly. There's only one reason for having an unlisted number on a cell phone.

"Someone's got a dirty little secret," I say in a sing-song tone, waving the cell phone. "Shall I call her?"

The man's body tenses and I know I've struck a nerve. My thumb hovers over the dial button. However, at the last second, I snap the phone shut and toss it back on the table.

"We're not to the fun part, yet," I say as I get up from my chair. I pick the knife back up and walk around to where the man is sitting. "Ya know, with everything you have; a wife, kids. You'd think you would be happy." I place the blade of the knife on the man's shoulder, the sharp edge facing his neck. "Why would you cheat? Is it for the thrill of it? Does the thought that someday your wife is going to find out about your darling little mistress and call you on your infidelity excite you?" I tsk as though I'm talking to a naughty child. "I had a father once," I continue. "If you could call him that. Drunken bastard. He made everything seem like it was okay. But, I knew better. The beatings helped in clearing things up. I always wished for the perfect family. But, it's guys like you who remind me that there's no such thing as a perfect family."

I lean in close as I press the blade to the man's neck. I can feel him shake. This is what feeds me: Fear. It's my drug of choice. In the living room, the main phone starts to ring. Must be the wife. I look up at the calendar. Today's date is circled. I've kept this poor man from some special engagement. Oh, well. Let the phone ring. I'll be doing this family a favour.

I grin as the man trembles underneath the bite of the blade. "Time to have some fun," I say in dark glee.

* * *

I flick through the pictures that I had taken on my phone. Not my best work, but I did the job. From the safety of an alley, I look up and watch the scene unfold in front of me. Cop cars block off the street. The crime scene unit just arrived. I turn back to the phone. I open up a new text message, punch in a number and send off the pictures with a dark, satisfied grin.

"Is it him?" I hear one of the CSU men ask.

"Looks like it," a cop answers.

"Are we ever going to catch this guy?" another CSU man asks.

I smirk. "Nope," I whisper.

I turn the phone off, stick it in my pocket and fade into the shadows of the alley. I know that my message had gotten through to the intended target. Let Gates make heads or tails out of this one. I can't help but laugh. It's so much fun playing with the detective. He thinks he's so close to catching me. I grin to myself as I make my way through the back alleys. With every kill I put myself a step ahead; not just in front of Gates, but everyone. No one can touch me. I'm invincible. Unstoppable.

I am Sky.

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Reviews are welcome, flames are not


	2. Gates

I look through the pictures that are strewn across the table in front of me. Sky has struck again. This time it was a father living in upper Manhattan. I've been staring at the pictures for so long my eyes are beginning to burn out of their sockets. I step back and rub my eyes. For the last three months I've been tracking down the serial killer. Sadly, I'm nowhere close to catching him and my resources are extremely limited. No one wants to talk to a detective; private or otherwise.

My attention is brought back to the table when a phone starts to ring. I look down to see the oddly shaped cell phone I had found three months prior vibrating loudly. The phone is designed like a turtle's shell. Other than that, there are no distinguishable features to tell me where it came from. The only thing I was able to figure out was that it had been tampered with. However, I was unable to discover what had been removed or installed.

The phone continues to vibrate. I look at the caller ID. "Donnie" flashes on the small screen. It's the same name that has appeared on the screen several times over the last three months. I wonder if he's the owner of the phone. Maybe he dropped it at some point and is trying to locate it. In any case, the phone falls silent and I return to the crime scene pictures that Sky has so graciously sent to me over the span of his killing spree. I growl in frustration. Just when I believe I have him, he slips through my fingers and disappears. It's been three days since his last kill. I know he's just laying low; waiting for things to calm down before he strikes again.

My concentration is broken again when the shell phone starts vibrating once more. It's Donnie again. This phone must mean something special to him if he hasn't given up calling it. I've been half tempted to answer to see what he wants. Though, something always holds me back. What that something is, I can never tell. The phone grows quiet and another opportunity to see what Donnie is looking for slips away. A couple of seconds after the phone stops ringing, the door of the room I'm in opens and a tall man with dark blonde hair and brown eyes enters the room.

"Still looking for a clue?" he asks.

I sigh and nod. "I'm getting nowhere," I confess.

The man walks over to a bookshelf where a tank sits. I then notice he's carrying a lettuce leaf. He places the leaf in the tank and steps back. I watch in fascination as a small turtle pokes its head out of its shell and slowly makes its way over to the leaf.

"Turtles have always fascinated me," the man says. "I was so proud when I bought my first turtle pets. I got four." We watch as the little turtle begins munching on the leaf. "Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get them home. I lost them down the sewers."

He looks over and gives me a strange look. It's a look I've grown used to. I catch my reflection in the tank glass. Red-brown hair, tan skin and blue eyes. I wear a grey sweater and dark blue jeans. I can never understand why my host always looks at me funny whenever he starts talking about turtles. Do I remind him of one? I don't see how that's possible. I'm human, not reptilian. Anyway, I'm sure he has his reasons.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," the man says.

He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him. I sigh slightly, jumping when the shell phone suddenly starts ringing again. Donnie. I ignore the phone, turning my gaze to the small turtle in the tank. It's finished its snack. The small creature turns its soulful eyes upward and we lock gazes. I smile and the little turtle disappears back inside its shell. I look down at the pictures and shake my head. I'm not going to catch Sky tonight. I go over to the bed and lie down. Maybe after a good night's sleep I'll be able to see something that I've missed.

* * *

The hot coffee burns my throat and I wince slightly in pain. I stand over the crime scene pictures, determined to find a link between the victims. Nothing about Sky is random. He chooses his targets with a purpose. My eyes linger over the first photos he ever sent me. The victim was an elderly man; husband, father, grandfather. Why anyone would want to take his life is beyond me. I look to the second crime scene photos. A businessman; owner of his own company, boss to hundreds of workers. The third set, a researcher in the medical field. She was on the edge of a medical breakthrough; and now she will never finish her work. The fourth set is an artist. She's wasn't very well known, not yet, at least. She did more murals for the city than for galleries.

My eyes drift over the remainder of the pictures. Father, businessman, researcher, artist. The cycle keeps repeating. What is Sky trying to tell me? There's a message here; I know there is. But the meaning of the message eludes me. I've solved many crimes in my time as a private investigator; but for whatever reason, this case has become the bane of my existence.

I walk away from the desk. I grab my hat and jacket on the way out the door. Maybe a long walk will help clear my head. And, if I run into Sky along the way...I grin. I will have no trouble putting him out of everyone's misery.

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Reviews are welcome, flames are not


	3. Cal

**Disclaimer** : see chapter one

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There's no sound I love more than the sound of a spray can. There's just something about the sound that makes me feel alive. Spray cans are my paint, the alley wall is my canvas. I spin a can of paint a couple of times in my hand as I study the blank wall in front of me. There's so much potential. Anything can happen. I fix my Breton cap so that I can see more clearly and shake the spray can.

I begin covering the wall in an array of colors, not exactly sure where I'm going with the idea. When I'm done, I step back and study my masterpiece. I tilt my head slightly to one side. The wall now depicts a man with three other men standing to his left and right. I scratch my head. Where did that idea come from? Especially since one of the other men looks like me. Short, messy blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion. Very weird.

"Cal!" someone calls out.

I turn to see my best friend, Trisha approaching. I can't help but smile. It's always great to see Trisha. Especially since it feels like I haven't seen her in a dog's age. And by the look that's in her eyes, I haven't.

"Where have you been, Michelangelo?" Trisha asks jokingly.

I laugh. "Michelangelo I am not," I tell her. "Far from it."

"Leonardo, then," Trisha says, giving me a wink.

"More like Picasso," I reply, looking up at the painting.

Trisha follows my gaze. "Wow. That's intense. What do you call this one?"

"Uh..." I stammer. "I'm not really sure."

"So, is it four different people? Or are they all one in the same?" Trisha asks next.

I rub the back of my neck. How can I tell her if I don't know myself? Trisha studies the picture, her eyes lingering on the one that looks like me.

"Are you harbouring any deep, dark secrets I should know about?" she jokes. She points to the man on the far right; the one that looks like me. "Or are you just developing visions of grandeur?"

I chuckle. "I'm not becoming full of myself, if that's what you're worried about," I assure her. "Although..."

I trail off as I look at the painting. I can't explain it, but something seems familiar about the setting. Trisha steps back and puts her hands behind her back.

"I find it interesting how you paint someone that resembles you, yet your painting self seems to be part of the main person, instead of you _being_ the main person," she muses. "Like you're..." She gasps excitedly. "One of the whole. That's it! That's the name of this painting."

"I think you've been breathing in too many paint fumes," I tell her.

"Okay. Then, what would _you_ call this picture?" Trisha asks me.

"Too Much Coffee and Not Enough Sleep," I answer.

Trisha looks down to see the ten empty cups of coffee scattered around the base of the wall. She puts a hand over her mouth to hide a chuckle, but I hear it, anyway. It's hard being a kid living on the streets. No fifteen-year-old deserves that kind of life. Yet, myself and Trisha live it every day. I'm lucky I make enough money painting murals to keep food in our bellies.

"Did you hear about the murder that took place uptown?" Trisha suddenly asks.

I nod. "Yeah. Looks like Sky struck again," I comment.

Trisha looks at me, fear shining in her eyes. "Please be careful, Cal. Sky's last murder was an artist."

I give her a reassuring smile. "Hey, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I doubt I'm important enough for Sky to take interest in."

"Still. I don't want to see you get hurt," Trisha says.

I pull her into a hug and hold her close. "I'll be fine, Trish. I promise. I'll keep off of Sky's radar. I'm good at disappearing when I need to."

"You got that right," Trisha agrees. "Where do you go when you disappear, anyway?"

"Somewhere where no one can find me," I reply. "It's safer for you if you don't know where I am."

Trisha looks up at me. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" she asks. "Sky isn't after you, is he?"

I shake my head. "No, no. Nothing like that. It's just...lately, I've noticed some guys following me. I'm sure it's no big deal. But, I've just been taking extra precautions."

Trisha nods in understanding. "Okay," she says. She pulls away. "Well, I better get going. Just wanted to drop by and see how you were doing. Haven't seen you in a while."

I smile. "Yeah. It's good to see you doing well."

Trisha smiles back. "See ya 'round, Cal."

I wave as she walks off. With one final look at the painted wall, I pack up my things and head in the opposite direction. After a while, I feel like someone is watching me. I look over my shoulder to see the same guys I've seen before following me. They wear the customary tattoo of the Purple Dragons gang. I walk a little faster; not sure why two of the Purple Dragons would be following me. Unless I've intruded on their turf. My heart sinks. If that's the case, then I'm in for it.

I look over my shoulder again. The Dragons are still behind me. I pick up the pace again and I can sense them doing the same. Securing the duffle bag I carry, I break into a run. I can hear the pounding footsteps behind me. I duck and weave through the crowd of people, trying to get away; but I know that the men are still on my tail.

I duck into an alleyway and try to lose them in the back alleys. Unfortunately, I soon hit a dead end. I look up the tall wall. I turn around to head back the way I came, but the way is already blocked. Where there were two, now there's five. Where did the other three come from? I back up, but my back hits the wall.

"Nowhere to run this time, freak," one of the men snarls.

I've never been called a freak before. That's a new one. I drop to the ground and cover my head with my arms as the men descend upon me with weapons. If I knew how to fight, I would have fought back. However, I'm powerless to do anything and soon I lie on the ground; drifting between this world and the next. The men walk off; laughing in victory.

I groan as I try to move, but everything hurts. I know I have at least a couple of bones broken. My eyes begin to drift closed.

 _Someone...please...help..._

The world is absorbed in the inky darkness of the abyss.

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Reviews are welcome, flames are not


	4. Gates: 2

**A/N** : Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed thus far. Your support is greatly appreciated.

 **Disclaimer** : see chapter one

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I grunt in effort as I open the apartment door. I hold an arm around my chest. Blood seeps from a gash in my head; pain stabs my ribs. I stumble into the apartment, closing and locking the door behind me. I have no memory of how I ended up like this. I seem to have blacked out at some point during my walk. The last thing I remember I was walking down the street from the apartment I've been staying. The next thing I know I was waking up beaten and bloody in an alley with no recollection of how I got there.

"Oh my gosh! Gates!" comes the voice of Darryl, the man who has so graciously housed me these past three months.

He hurries up and puts an arm around my right arm and back. I whimper as he helps me into the bathroom.

"What the hell happened?" Darryl asks. "You went out for a walk and never came back. How did you get so beaten up?"

"Don't recall," I gasp as I sit on the toilet.

"I'm calling a doctor," Darryl says, moving to leave.

I grab his arm, instantly regretting the sudden movement. "No doctors. No hospitals," I tell him.

"Why not?" Darryl wants to know, confused.

"Don't trust them," I reply simply.

Darryl shakes his head in bewilderment. "You need medical attention. You could have a concussion."

I wince in pain. "And two...three..." I wince again. "Make that four cracked ribs. And possibly a sprained wrist."

"And you won't go to the hospital?" Darryl asks incredulously.

"I've survived worse without going to the hospital," I tell him.

"What? You've survived being shot?" he jokes humourlessly.

I look at him. He blinks a couple of times as his words sink in.

"Seriously?"

I only nod. I gasp for breath. Each breath sends a lance of scorching hot pain through my chest. I just hope I don't have a punctured lung. Then I'd really be in trouble.

"Gates, this is nuts," Darryl comments. "You need a doctor."

"I need the first aid kit," I press. "A few bandages and I'll be fine."

Darryl grumbles something under his breath, but pulls the first aid kit out of the medicine cabinet nonetheless. He hands it to me and I open it. I tenderly remove my jacket and shirt; both of which I have never seen before, and take out a roll of bandages. With Darryl's help, I wrap the roll around my chest, tying it off at my side. With another roll, I wrap up my left wrist. Darryl stands by and watches me.

"I really can't persuade you to go to the hospital?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Sorry. But, I can't afford to be hold up in a bed while Sky is still on the loose," I explain. I remember the shell phone that still sits on my desk. "Besides, there's someone else who needs my help. He may very well be Sky's first victim."

Darryl frowns. "Whom might that be?" he questions.

"A brother. A friend. A son. Someone is missing someone and I have to help them," I state.

"Why you?" Darryl quizzes me. "If it's a missing persons case, why don't you hand it over to the police?"

"Because the police don't know he exists," I reply hotly, my patience waning.

Darryl gives me a strange look. It's the same look he gave me the first time we met. The look only lasts a second, but I've already seen it. I stand up and make my way into my room, closing the door behind me. I go over to the bed and sit down on the edge. My head swims, the room spins. Why can't I remember anything? Although, this hasn't been the first time I've had a lapse in memory. As long as I can remember I've been prone to black outs. However, this is the first time I've woken up in this kind of state.

I'm brought out of my thoughts when the shell phone starts ringing. I wince as I stand up. I make it just in time to see Donnie flash across the small ID screen. The phone falls silent and I start to wait. I begin counting away the seconds. When I reach a minute the phone starts ringing again. I pick up the phone and hold it. I want to answer, but something is holding me back. Fear maybe? But, fear of what?

The phone continues to ring impatiently. I almost open the phone, but at the last second I place it back on the desk and let it ring. I walk over to the bed and carefully lie down. My head pounds, my body aches. I know I can't sleep just in case I do have a concussion. So many questions, so little time. I can't shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen; or that something already has happened. I just hope the answers don't come to me too late.

* * *

 _I stand on a rooftop overlooking New York. The city is as lively as ever. I smile as I take everything in. The sights, the sounds. NYC is beautiful at night. There's no place I would rather be. My attention is suddenly brought to a sound behind me. I turn around, but there's nothing there. However, I can somehow sense a presence. Someone is here._

 _The sound comes again, further back on the rooftop; in the shadows. I start forward, not really knowing why. Curious, I guess. My eyes search the darkness, but I can't see anything. Then, I hear something that sounds like sobbing. I stop short when I see a darker shadow curled up under a water tower._

 _"Hello?" I ask. "Is someone there?"_

 _The shadow shifts, someone looks up. The lights of the city illuminate glassy eyes. The shadow slowly stands up. At that moment a news helicopter flies overhead, the spotlight revealing the shadow. My eyes widen when I find myself staring at a two legged turtle with a purple mask._

 _"Why won't you come home?" the turtle asks sadly._

My eyes fly open. I cry out in pain when a sharp intake of breath lances my ribs with crippling pain. I lie on the bed, incapacitated for a few moments. The door opens and Darryl hurries in; worry shining in his eyes.

"You okay, Gates?" he asks.

I manage a nod, growling in pain. "Yeah," I grunt.

"What happened?"

"Bad dream," I reply. I manage to catch my breath. "I didn't even know I fell asleep."

"That seems to be a recurring theme today," Darryl comments. "You not knowing stuff."

I put a hand over my eyes and concentrate my breathing.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Darryl asks in concern.

"Yeah," I reply.

It's a lie and I know it. I just hope Darryl doesn't pick up on it. I hear him shuffle back towards the door.

"Alright. Well, if you need anything, give a shout," Darryl says.

"Will do," I answer.

The door closes and I'm alone again. I lower my hand and stare up at the ceiling. I can't get the image of the turtle out of my head. And what did he mean when he asked why I wouldn't go home? I raise my hand to the ceiling and stare at it for a moment. I gasp when I suddenly see green skin and three fingers. I blink and my hand is back to normal, five fingers and all. I gingerly push myself up into a sitting position.

"What's going on with me?" I whisper.

Maybe I got hit in the head harder than I thought.

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Reviews are welcome, flames are not


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